


quiet motions

by Randomfandoms389



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Established Relationship, M/M, Massage, Omegaverse, Rimming, Smut, pre-heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24804466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Randomfandoms389/pseuds/Randomfandoms389
Summary: “Can I take off your pants?”He definitely doesn't shudder at the low, intimate whisper. “I don't know. Can you?”America pinches him for that. England muffles his moan into the pillow. “Smartass. May I, oh great Professor Kirkland?”“You may undress me,” England allows graciously, feeling deliciously warm and loose and tingly. America might not often ask for verbal permission, but he always required an answer when he did and it was generally better for all involved that permission be granted before he resorted to more… creative persuasion.
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 79





	quiet motions

**Author's Note:**

> I got the title from the song quiet motions by mxmtoon and it's just. so soothing?? idk but i love all of her songs they're great  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NY__uAZtZZ8

“That’s a nice nest.”

England pauses mid-fiddle with a particularly stubborn pillow that had been refusing to slot properly into place for the last ten minutes. It’s a silly thing to be fussing over when the nice, neat arrangement of pillows, blankets and spare cushions he’d pilfered from the sofa (after changing the covers, of course) was doomed to disarray once his heat begins, but it’s a soothing habit and he’s on edge enough that it’s easy to give in to the urge.

He shifts defensively, almost snapping back a sharp ‘ _don't patronise me, tosser’_ but catching himself in time; America’s tone had been sincere and England’s been through this enough times to recognise that the restless itch under his skin and vague annoyance isn't directed at anyone in particular, least of all his lover. 

He still avoids looking over to where America’s leaning against the doorjamb, making a noncommittal sound as he steps back from the bed, pillow in hand. _Odd, I could have sworn that I used all of them last time…_ He frowns at the offending pillow, hugging it to his chest for lack of anything better to do with it. How vexing; he had nest-construction practically to an art by now, down to the precise fold of every blanket. Most omegas did. It just saved time, to have a favoured setup already in mind instead of scrambling to put to rights a haphazard pile before every heat.

Although… England considers the cosy hollow set up in the middle of his heat room and is wryly reminded of the pillow forts America had used to make around the house as a child. Damned hormones. He had multiple cupboards dedicated to the storage of nest-building material already and America was constantly bringing him more offerings along with those big, sunshiny smiles of his that always made England melt a little inside. It was ridiculous, really. He was a grown man. He didn't need to own enough pillows to open a shop, omega or no. It was dreadfully inconvenient too, with all the extra laundry he had to wash afterwards.

Then, as if to spite him (in a sardonic sort of _oh, you want inconvenient? Try this on for size!_ way _)_ the dull ache in his abdomen that he’s been resolutely ignoring becomes much less dull and mutates into a sensation more akin to his organs being shredded by hundreds of tiny needles. That were on fire. (Could one set a needle on fire?)

Long used to fielding his body’s capricious whims during this period, England doesn't flinch, but he does startle when warm arms loop around his waist and a chin is tucked against the crown of his head. Lips pursing, he hugs the pillow a little tighter and debates shaking America off. The warmth was nice though (and he hadn't quite noticed until now that he was cold,) so he supposes that he would allow it. “Did you want something, America?”

He feels the faint vibration through his back as America hums with mock-thoughtfulness, starting to sway them playfully from side to side. That was slightly more annoying than popping up unexpectedly for sneak hugs and England retaliates by going limp so that America’s bearing most of his weight. Not that it seems to faze him in the slightest. He just sets his feet and adjusts his grip around England’s middle a little. “Dunno,” he says finally, almost ridiculously bright and cheery for how late it was. America had probably come by to cajole him to bed. His next words confirmed it. “You, maybe?”

“... Idiot.” Though England supposed that he’d set himself up for that one. And he can _hear_ the smile in America’s voice and it makes him feel a bit better even though he’s tired and irritable and his stomach seemed to be making valiant effort to tear itself in half, which was… unpleasant. To say the least. He allows himself a slight grimace since America can't see his face, but must have tensed up or otherwise reacted enough for his discomfort to be noticed. 

“Sweetheart?” America tries to crane forward and only stops when England makes his displeasure at being jostled known by pinching his forearm. “Ow. What’s wrong though?”

“The usual,” England tells him shortly, if only because America sounded genuinely worried. He got like this every year when England’s heats rolled around - dropping everything for a flight to London, no matter how short notice it was (as many an unhappy president had found,) so he could spend his time trailing England around like a puppy and offering to do this and that - ‘ _sit down, sweetheart, I’ll give you a foot rub!’_ to ‘ _Want some tea? I practised on Canada to get it right,’_ to ‘ _I’ll do the dishes today; weren't you planning to read that new book?’_ It was… nice. To know he cared. Rather sweet, in fact, which was the only reason England put up with it, really, because he was hardly an invalid. It did seem to be an alpha thing though, so he supposes that he shouldn't blame America for fretting. 

“Cramps,” he adds after a moment, just in case America didn't get it. “Don't worry about it, love, it’ll pass.” 

America still fusses sympathetically, of course, which England endures with minimal annoyance. It _did_ feel quite nice to have big, warm hands rubbing at his sides and sneaking past his pillow shield to get at his belly. And the way that America is breathing on his neck is pleasantly distracting. So is the way he nips gently at England’s ear to get his attention. “Can I get you anything? Advil? Hot water bottle? C’mon, honey, lie down. I can give you a backrub.”

“What you can do is to let go of me,” England tells him unconvincingly, just for appearances’ sake. A backrub sounded heavenly then. His spine twinges as if in agreement. Undeterred, America just goes on smuggling him and England finds himself resting a hand on his arm, picking idly at a loose thread in his sleeve. “I have work to do,” he tries, even less convincingly. 

“Liar.” America kisses his ear, pressing his lips to the delicate shell. His breath tickles and England shivers slightly. “Your boss gave you two weeks off. He told me to ‘make sure that fool omega’s taking care of himself, you hear?’”

“... that bloody busybody. I suppose that he was the one who called you in?” 

“Yep,” America says, popping the ‘p’. It’s his turn to pinch England this time, lightly, on the hip through his loose cotton pants. “And I’m still very mad that you didn't tell me. Were you gonna just power through it on your own?” He’s pouting; England can feel it against his neck. He mumbles an excuse about knowing it was a busy time in Washington that America clearly doesn't buy in the least. “I took off halfway through an _election_ for you once, old man.” Still pouting, but now America’s attacking his neck in reproach. Nibble, nibble, nibbling at delicate skin. England sucks in a breath and has to squash the faint stirrings of heat in his belly. Bloody _fucking_ hormones. 

He focuses and manages a slightly distracted, “I remember. Your politicians were not best pleased.” It’s breathless but America doesn't seem to notice. 

“Fuck ‘em.” Unfortunately (or fortunately), this doesn't deter America from his ministrations. Far from it. England holds back a shudder when sharp teeth scrape over the sensitive patch of skin under his ear.

“Glad to know you've got your priorities straight,” he quips, carefully casual, tilting his head back obligingly when America nudges at him. The cramps seem to have subsided somewhat, but that just means that America’s nibbling and gentle touches are now even harder to ignore. England’s starting to lose track of whether this is a good or bad thing.

“ _You're_ my priority,” America tells him with his usual earnest sincerity, utterly unabashed by his own soppiness, and England can feel himself going pink. He clears his throat, but America just laughs and kisses at the hinge of his jaw with appallingly mawkish affection. It’s all making England’s heart flutter in a way that he is tolerably certain hearts should not be fluttering. Not _his_ heart, at least, the shrivelled old thing that it is. He fumbles to reply, but America just snickers at him. “Oh, relax, old man, you don't gotta say it back right now. I know you like making your own romantic declarations with like, poetry and metaphors and shit.”

“It’s ‘you don't have to’,” England’s mouth corrects automatically, with no input from his brain whatsoever. It’s reflex by now. “And the poetry was _one_ time.” Because never again.

“Aww. Is it ‘cause I kept giggling? ‘M sorry,” America says in between his nibbling, not sounding very sorry at all. Prat. 

_“Prat,”_ England says aloud, smiling a little himself. He’s not really bothered by that particular failure; England has always figured that he could no more be upset at America for not appreciating such things than America could be at him for not appreciating sports and that one terrible game with the entirely wrong name. There's a sly hand sneaking up his shirt, warm and calloused against his skin. He loosens his grip on the pillow and pretends not to notice, letting his head fall back onto America’s shoulder so he can have more of those kisses. “See if I ever read you poetry again.”

America kisses him instead of replying, which was its own kind of reply, really. England just isn't quite sure what it means and doesn't really care. He opens his mouth when America traces the seam of it with his tongue, inviting him in eagerly. The angle is a little awkward, but when England tries to turn around so he doesn't have to strain his neck, America stops him. “Bed? We can break in that cute lil’ nest of yours.” 

“So eager to spend the next week fucking, are you?” England asks dryly. He's already tugging America towards it though, almost tripping on their feet when the alpha remains glommed cheerfully onto his back. 

“Nothin’ wrong with getting a headstart.”

“Indeed. Now if only you could apply such an attitude to your actual _work_.” England pauses when his knees hit the bedframe but America doesn't stop pushing gently at his back until England’s sprawled on his stomach in the middle of the nest. Then he waits, hovering above while England gets comfortable with his arms wrapped around the pillow.

“Shut,” America says affably, flopping down onto his back. “Am I squishing you?”

England considers this. America’s heavy, but he’s warm (which may have already been said, but was a very pertinent detail, damnit, and thus would be said again) and England finds that he rather likes being pressed into the mattress. He blames the hormones for this too. “No. Don't move.”

“Wasn't planning to.” America goes on mouthing at his neck and he closes his eyes briefly, but doesn't otherwise respond to the hands slipping up his shirt again to rub slow circles over his sides and what they can reach of his chest. It’s all very pleasant, but England distinctly recalls being promised a backrub and says so a tad impatiently.

“Hah. Knew you liked my magic fingers.” 

England thinks that he actually prefers those fingers on (or _in)_ some other parts of his anatomy, but isn't crass enough to actually say it aloud. He just sighs noisily and then pretends that the sigh was one of annoyance when America starts kneading at his upper back. America’s even kind enough not to call him on it. There's some shuffling when America tries to pull up his shirt without disturbing him and fails terribly enough at it that England takes pity and starts to get up, only to be stopped by a broad palm between his shoulder blades. 

“Wha- just take the damned thing off,” he mumbles into the pillow, quite prepared to be lulled to sleep by all the lovely, lovely warmth surrounding him and the even nicer massage. 

He feels America press a kiss to his shoulder, nuzzling into it. “Nah. You look too cute in my shirt for me to take it off.”

“M’not wearing one of your blasted…” Wait. He sniffs discreetly at his shoulder and groans. He _was_. Ah hell, America was going to be insufferable about this for ages. Served him right for not looking too closely at the first comfortable thing he’d dragged out of his closet, England supposes. He makes a vaguely annoyed sound and burrows further into his pillow as America finally manages to bunch the shirt up under his chest, leaving his back bare. 

To distract from his slip, England casts about for a new topic and grouses out, “Whatever. Why a backrub? Is that supposed to help with cramps?”

“Not so much about the cramps themselves, really,” America says, getting the tone he always uses when humouring England. Since he’s now working on knots England hadn't even realised he had, England is disposed to be tolerant. Especially when America leans down to kiss his neck again. “You tense up when you're in pain,” he murmurs into England’s ear while he’s there, lips brushing, and it takes England a moment to parse the words, let alone come up with a denial. America beats him to it anyway. “Shush, don't think I never noticed.” He digs his fingers into a particularly tender spot and England stifles a low moan. “You’ll work and work and pretend nothing’s wrong until someone _makes_ you. Someone being _me_.”

Little upstart. England mumbles something desultory about America’s caretaking abilities under his breath and almost gasps when America sinks his teeth into his neck before continuing, tone deceptively light. “Shut up, you know ‘m right. And then it takes me _ages_ to make you sit down and eat something and unwind before you stress yourself into a coronary.”

“How very kind of you,” England snipes half-heartedly, breath hitching when America _licks_ at him like some kind of bloody treat, which should have felt disgusting, even with those big hands dipping to the small of his back. ( _Should_ being the operative word here.)

“Yeah, I _am_ pretty great.” And now the boy’s being facetious. Or so England is mostly sure. He shifts when hands brush the elastic waistband of his pants. “So no complaining now, ‘cause I’m gonna fuck you silly and then you're gonna take a nice nap.”

“... Bastard,” England says into his pillow, which thankfully doesn't seem incline to tattle about the involuntary curve of his smile. “Rather sure of yourself, aren't you, boy?”

America just hums and opens his mouth, dragging his tongue over the nape of England’s neck in a wet, shiver-inducing trail until he’s stopped by the wide collar of the shirt. He’s sitting on the back of England’s thighs, hands flirting with England’s waistband and dipping playfully beneath in quick, almost idle motions. It’s a contrast to his voice, rich and smooth with _intent_ in a way that was doing quite a number on England’s cognition. He suspects that might be the point though. But then America’s hands creep lower, skimming over the back of his thighs and even daring to slip in between, and England decides that he doesn't care one whit. 

“Hey, darlin’?”

God, he was breaking out the pet names now. England clears his suddenly dry throat by way of answer, firmly suppressing the small involuntary sound that his body wants to make. As if sensing weakness, America nuzzles the crook of his shoulder, dragging that hot mouth up to England’s ear to murmur, “Can I take off your pants?”

Oh, now this was just being mean. England gropes for what brain cells have been spared after all that’s America done to him and comes up with a prim, if albeit breathless, “Planning to have your way with me, are you, _Mr Jones_?” America’s always liked England calling him that. Something about the accent, it seemed. 

Sure enough, America swallows audibly and England feels a bit better at his small victory. At least until America’s hands go back to his arse and _squeeze_ , startling him into a small cry. “Something like that, _Arthur_.” America had big hands. They always looked like they might’ve been clumsy or rough, but there's nothing inept about the way he’s fondling England right now. England squirms minutely and feels America smile into the side of his neck. “So? Can I take ‘em off?”

He definitely doesn't shudder at the low, intimate whisper. “I don't know. Can you?”

America pinches him for that. England muffles his moan into the pillow. “Smartass. _May_ I, oh great Professor Kirkland?”

“You may undress me,” England allows graciously, feeling deliciously warm and loose and tingly, anticipation singing through his veins. America might not often ask for verbal permission, but he always required an answer when he did and it was generally better for all involved that permission be granted before he resorted to more… _creative_ persuasion.

His pants were summarily removed, more due to America’s efforts than his own. England accepts the manhandling without comment and simply spreads his legs so America can sit between them, almost moaning again when the boy immediately resumes groping him. He’s bold, splaying his fingers and letting his thumbs dip into the cleft of England’s arse without even a hint of shame, pressing and rubbing and just _touching_ , occasionally venturing between his thighs to stroke at the sensitive skin behind his balls. Touching and touching and touching some more until England’s breathing is quick and shallow and he's trying not to rut against the mattress like an animal. 

“God, you're gorgeous like this,” America says, so quietly that he can barely hear, and then America’s spreading him, drawing him open and exposed and all England can do about it is moan. He’s already wet and America hisses at the evidence that must be glistening between his cheeks. He touches England there, almost absently, a soft and barely-there brush of his finger that drags a low incoherent sound from England, muffled by the pillow. “Fuck, the things I wanna do to you-” He presses harder and England _mewls_ , feeling his body yield to the pressure and that single finger sink into him. 

He pushes back greedily for more and America obliges, pushing his finger inside to the third knuckle and curling it in just the right way to make England shudder. “Gorgeous,” he says again, almost reverently and England mumbles ‘ _flatterer’_ into his pillow and pretends that he didn't slur it. America wasn't helping, with the way he was now nuzzling the small of England’s back and licking along the column of his spine. 

Then - “I wanna put my mouth on you,” he says into England’s skin, tongue pressing soft and warm and _wet_ and England’s mind goes blank. “Can I?”

A slightly strangled noise is all that comes out of England’s throat. It doesn't seem to deter America from venturing lower, kissing his way down until he’s scraping his teeth over England’s tailbone and asking again, almost innocently, “Sweetheart? Is that okay?”

“Oh, f-fuck you,” England grinds out unsteadily. America knew _exactly_ what he was doing to him with all the touching and the kissing and the bloody _questions_ \- The finger inside him jerks upwards sharply and England moans. His tongue feels too big for his mouth and he only realises that he’s biting the pillow when he tastes cotton, warm and damp from his saliva. Behind him, America clicks his tongue and then his free hand is closing around England’s hip in warning. “Ah-ah, no cheating, sweetheart. I wanna hear you.”

Bloody arsehole. England almost wants to tell him where he can shove it, but then America’s sitting up and his finger’s gone and he’s forcing England onto his knees. He’s practically holding England up, in fact, knocking his knees apart and then reaching in between to grab… oh. Oh god. He’s not gentle in the least about wrapping his hand around England’s cock, fingers on just the right side of _too tight_ \- _too tight-ahh!_ Distantly, England is aware of his own mouth going slack, falling open for an almost-whimper to escape, and America reaching below him to reposition the pillow to support his hips. He should have taken exception to being handled like a doll. Normally, he would have. But now, England just closes his eyes, letting himself be arranged, until he’s lying prone with his cheek pressed into the mattress and arse in the air for America to play with as he wished. 

It’s too easy to fall into a pleasured stupor, hearing nothing but his own thudding heartbeat in his ears and gripping the bedsheets hard enough to tear as America slips two fingers into him with a satisfied hum. “Better,” America says and twists his fingers just to be cruel. He sounded like he might have been smiling. His fingers press in deep, quick as anything with all the slick that England’s shameless body is producing. They find his prostate with practised ease, prodding at the delicate little bundle of nerves and making England keen sharply in the back of his throat. He misses what America says next, too busy gasping and writhing as his prostate is mercilessly assaulted, and so is caught by surprise, jolting forward with a sharp cry when one broad palm comes down on his upturned arse with the obscene _smack_ of skin on skin.

It _stings_ and England struggles to breathe past the surge of arousal clogging his throat. He's trembling, he realises dimly as America croons at him, tuneless and comforting, rubbing at his hip and murmuring platitudes in an endless stream; _shush darlin’, relax, just hadta get your attention real quick -_

The touch of his tongue to the curve of England’s arse is both a surprise and not. He leans into it with a whine, hips shifting only to be restrained by a now-gentle hand and - _I told you, sweetheart, you're gonna have to_ tell _me what you want -_

“You,” England manages, tongue thick and clumsy in his mouth. “I-I want… _America,_ god, just…”

There's a soft laugh behind him and the fingers twist and thrust, just once more, before they are removed. England feels their absence keenly but his moan of protest is cut off by the slow, wet glide of America’s tongue down his cleft. Which then _stops_. Just above his -

England could have screamed. He gives a wordless snarl of mingled fury and frustration and America _laughs_. 

“Sorry, darlin’.” He’s smirking. England _knows_ it. “Did you want something?”

“You little-” Another _smack_ and England spasms briefly, biting back a helpless whimper. “O-oh, _fuck…_ ”

He's not going to be able to take it if America decides to spank him. He's going to come all over the sheets, untouched, and then they’ll have to be changed and then he’ll have to re-do the entire stupid, sodding nest and America is never going to let him live it down, pre-heat or no. 

At the thought, England gives in. He drags in a shuddering breath. “A-America…” Expectant silence. Arousal or no, England wants to _die_. Wait, no, he just wants to _throttle_ his stupid, smug little upstart _idiot_. The switch to anger is a welcome one. It means England can get out his next sentence without spontaneously combusting in mingled lust and humiliation. “Oh my god, if you don't fucking put your tongue in me in the _next five fucking seconds_ , I’m going to - _ah!_ ” 

America laughs because of course, he does (- _shh, beautiful, no need for threats,)_ but England doesn't even care because America finally, finally gives it to him and he is shortly reduced to meaningless cries and desperate squirming, white noise thrumming in his ears as America grips his hips hard enough to hurt and fucks him with his tongue like he's trying to make up for all the teasing and frustration before. (It doesn't. But it goes a long way in convincing England not to kick him out of the room after this orgasm, regardless of whether America manages to finish or not.)

And for all his nonsense, America doesn't fuck around. Once he decides on something, he bloody _commits_ to it and England has never been more grateful for simple, stubborn bullheadedness. He’s going to come and come _hard_ ; England can tell just from the buildup as America practically buries his face between his arsecheeks, sweeping and aggressive from the onset, slurping vulgarly and apparently uncaring of the mess of slick and saliva that’s no doubt now smeared all over his face. He sounded like he was _relishing_ it even, which is somehow incredibly hot and makes England feel like he’s burning up with fever. There's nowhere to escape even if he’d been of a mind to; America has him pinned to the bed, trapped neatly between the mattress and that deviously talented tongue. England’s moaning nonsensically in a way that he would ordinarily be embarrassed to admit to, but he can't bloody well _help_ it when he's being pleasured so thoroughly. 

“A-America, oh, _yes_ , yes- _like that!_ ” 

It’s almost a scream as he climaxes. He goes limp as a puppet with its strings cut, head lolling dazedly and is barely aware of the sticky warmth of his own cum spreading beneath him or the gush of slick that catches America by surprise. The alpha persists regardless, which seems to be another point in favour of let’s-not-kick-him-out-so-he-can-do-that-again, lapping at it gamely like it’s the best thing he's ever tasted. It makes England twitch, oversensitive and almost whimpering at the flicker of that tongue over him. 

“Enjoyed that?” America’s voice is rough when he finally sits up, leaving England torn between relief and vague dissatisfaction. He makes a small noise anyway, not sure himself whether it’s in protest or agreement, and America chuckles breathlessly, curling forward to press his face into the curve of England’s neck. His clothed cock settles smugly between England’s legs, but he doesn't push for more beyond that, just keeps pressing England gently into the mattress in the way they both know he will never admit makes him feel safe and protected. It’s tempting to drop off into sleep just like that, sticky and sweaty and sated, but America hasn't yet finished and England isn't that ill-mannered. 

He gives himself a minute to recover from the pleasant haze of orgasm, then shifts best as he can like this, letting out a low questioning murmur and rubbing his arse languidly against America, only for the boy to hiss sharply and grab at his hips. “W-wait, shit, I’m gonna -”

“That is rather the point, my dear,” England says into his mattress, careful with his enunciation now. Pleasure and blind lust tended to make him sloppy but with America no longer doing unspeakable things to him, there was simply no excuse. He rolls his hips deliberately and America moans into his ear. “Go on, then. That can't be very comfortable for you.”

“Mrm, you -sure? Didn't wanna j-just start humping ya-” 

“How chivalrous.” England can't quite manage dryness yet, with an excellent orgasm not five minutes behind him, but he can still pretend that he isn't wearing a stupid, soppy smile. He rolls his hips again, lazily, just to make America’s breath catch. “I don't really care - I’ve gotten mine already, so just hurry up and _come_ so I can sleep.”

“I feel - so loved…” 

“Oh, be quiet before I kick you out.”

The indolent threat makes America hiccup out a laugh that turns into a low groan as he tugs down his pants to free his cock and starts to move. With his lover having taken the hint, England lets himself go loose and lax again, legs spread for more access so America can rut against him. He must be a mess down there; he can hear the wet, vulgar _squelch_ and feel the way America’s cock practically glides between his thighs with every thrust. It is a tad uncomfortable since he’s still sensitive from orgasm, but ultimately tolerable with how erotic it is to hear America panting and gasping and coming undone behind him. England lies still and passive and lets America uses him however he wishes; closing his legs when the shaky request is posed and allowing the near-desperate grip on his hips when America’s rhythm begins to falter and the boy plasters himself to England’s back with a hoarse moan as he comes. His hips keep moving, uncoordinated and jerky as he paints England’s thighs with his spend and then proceeds to collapse heavily onto him, panting as if he’d just run a marathon.

“All right there?” England asks finally when America seems inclined to remain puddled over his back and breathe damply on his neck. It was enjoyable _now_ , when they were both basking in the afterglow, but if America was liable to fall asleep like this if England let him and then it would be murder to scrub off the unholy coagulation of sweat and cum tomorrow. Thusly motivated, he shoves at the deadweight slumped over his back only for America to groan piteously and attempt to wind his sticky limbs around England’s middle like some breed of particularly affectionate octopus. He mumbles into England’s shoulder what might have been some variant of _nooo, don't move_ and generally makes a loud, clingy nuisance of himself. 

England tsks at him. It comes out fond despite his best efforts. “ _Off_ , America. I need a shower and so do you.”

Another of those emphatic _noooo’_ s, now combined with America mashing his face into England’s shoulder blade and tangling their legs together to keep him in bed. England wrinkles his nose; he was now lying directly on top of the wet spot and the sensation was distinctly unpleasant. He pushes at America’s arm again but gentles his tone since he definitely would not be escaping without external assistance when America was like this. “Come now, do,” he coaxes. Then a better idea occurs to him. “You're crushing me, love.” 

A pause. Then America huffs and grudgingly rolls over. Seeing as he’s yet to detach himself from England’s waist, England is brought along for the ride and ends up sprawled on top of a broad, firm chest. Better, though he still can't get up unless America lets go. He weighs his options with due consideration.

“Oh, very well,” he compromises. “Five minutes.”

“Ten,” America counters, yawning. He has one hand resting proprietarily around the inner curve of England’s right thigh. The other is tracing slow, meaningless patterns into the thin skin above England’s hip. 

“Ten,” England allows and then smacks away the too-friendly hand sidling up his leg. “And watch what you're touching.”

“Mm. I like watchin’ you,” America tells him, either genuinely misunderstanding or simply attempting to flirt. “You’re reaally nice to watch.” Then he seems to realise that he’s been allowed more time to marinate in his own sweat and gives a quiet huzzah, shifting so he can tuck England into his side and bury his face into his neck. 

England resigns himself to his fate. Ten minutes would turn into twenty, and then into an hour and then he would be waking up tomorrow morning with a stiff neck, abhorrently filthy and half-stuck to America.

Well. 

He supposes there were worse ways to spend one’s time.

England considers the head of blonde hair tucked under his chin and, feeling bold, presses a quick kiss into it. “Love you,” he murmurs, soft even to his own ears. Too soft for America to hear, he thinks and is surprised when the boy stirs and an equally soft _love you too_ is breathed into his collarbone. 

“You’ll stay?” It’s every bit as hopeful as every other time America had asked, even though England has been sharing his bed for decades now and plans to continue sharing it for decades still. He entertains one last, longing thought about his shower and sighs. 

“I’ll be here when you wake,” England tells him, carding a hand through his damp hair. “Now sleep, my love.”

America makes a vague noise in answer, clearly half-gone already, but England does not miss the clumsy little kiss pressed into the dip of his clavicle. There is something warm and fluttery in his chest, something soft and tender in the shape of sunshine smiles and sky-blue eyes and the feeling of big, calloused hands wrapped around his own. 

England closes his eyes and dreams. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing shameless pwp and slapping in a few sappy lines at the back: is thi s f l u f f ?


End file.
